upstairs, downstairs
by mcfuz
Summary: Connor's not usually one to place blame, but the fire was all Asher's fault. / Coliver AU.


Connor's not usually one to place blame, but the fire was all Asher's fault.

Doucheface had said something about "faulty wiring," but Connor had pretty much stopped listening by the time the smoke alarms starting caterwauling. He would've at least grabbed some supplies on his way out of the apartment block—who knew watching hot firemen put out a blaze made a guy so goddamn hungry?—but Laurel had screeched about fire safety and herded them all out before Connor even had time to change out of his sweatpants.

So that's the reason he's standing on the pavement at ass o'clock in the morning, refusing to talk to Asher who in turn refuses to admit that he left the goddamn oven on. Law students, man. Think they can argue their way out of anything. Mind you, Connor includes himself in that group, but Asher is different.

Asher is a fucking douche.

And as they're waiting on the pavement, Connor's eye catches on a solitary guy standing a little away from the rest of the crowd, arms wrapped around himself obviously in an effort to keep warm. It's dark, and he's far away, but even from a distance and in the dim light of the streetlamp, Connor can tell he's attractive. Adorable, even, though that isn't really a word Connor usually likes to associate with.

_This is different, though_, he tells himself, as he makes his way over to the guy. _This is just friendly, neighbourly stuff. Helping out a neighbour in need._

The guy looks up as Connor approaches, all scrunched-up nose and tired eyes behind big, round thin-framed glasses. "Can I help you?" he asks, and his voice sounds somewhat familiar, though Connor can't exactly pinpoint where from.

"Just wondering if you needed some company," Connor replies easily, adding, "And some warmth," when he spots the guy's bare arms. Connor shrugs out of his jacket and offers it to the guy, who looks at him like he's crazy.

"I don't even know you," he says slowly, inching away from Connor. "And I'm fine by myself, thanks."

"I'm Connor," Connor says, regardless of the guy's hesitation.

"Oliver," comes the reply after a lengthy pause.

"There you go. Now we know each other." Connor offers up the jacket again, and the guy—Oliver—gingerly takes it, shrugging it over his own shoulders and sighing contentedly at the warmth. "You lived here very long? Just, I'm new, and don't really know anyone around this place."

Oliver nodded, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Yeah. Been here—little over a year, maybe?" He shrugs—_adorably_, Connor's brain supplies—and smiles. "S'not exactly Beverly Hills, and the walls are pretty thin sometimes—I mean, Jesus, you should hear the guy in the room above me, I didn't know anybody could even _be_ that loud in bed. And he's not exactly open to toning it down, you know? Even though I've yelled at him through the ceiling at least half a dozen times."

Connor feels as though a bucket of ice water has been dropped over his head. He suddenly remembers why Oliver's voice sounded so familiar—it was because he's heard it through the floorboards, begging for some peace and quiet, while Connor fucks his nightly conquest into the mattress. Thankfully, Oliver doesn't seem to notice his reaction, and Connor schools his expression into a poker face Annalise Keating would be proud of.

"Sounds like a grade-A dick," Connor says, stomach fluttering uncomfortably when Oliver gives him a searching look before nodding in agreement.

"I guess. I mean, I've never talked to him face-to-face—maybe he's not so bad?" Oliver seems to be waiting for an answer, so Connor shrugs noncommittally. "In fact," Oliver continues, "He's probably here right now—you wouldn't happen to know who lives in room 403 would you?"

Connor opens his mouth to reply that _no, nope, I have absolutely no clue what inconsiderate bastard lives above you, absolutely no idea, sorry_, but before he can, someone interrupts with an exclamation of, "403? Dude, isn't that your room?"

Connor pivots slowly on his heel to find Asher standing there, pretentious and utterly oblivious grin on his face. Connor wants a lightning bolt to strike Asher from the heavens. Or maybe the earth to swallow him up. Because it's one thing to potentially burn down an apartment block out of sheer stupidity, but it's another thing to jeopardise Connor's chances of getting laid with an adorable guy out of sheer ignorance.

And for once in his life, Asher seems to register his mistake. His face blanks immediately into _oh, shit_ mode, and he backs away, hands raised in surrender. Connor watches him go, determined to prolong to time before he has to turn and face the music with Oliver, but after a good ten seconds he has no choice.

He turns.

And waits.

Oliver is staring at him, unsmiling. "So I take it you're the grade-A dick in 403?" he asks, and Connor nods, desperately thinking of a way to remedy the situation. Maybe fake a call from his dying grandmother? Pretend to have burning appendicitis? Before he can decide, Oliver lets out a little huff, and it takes Connor all of five seconds to realise that the huff was actually a self-deprecating laugh. He glances up at Oliver in surprise. "You could've told me you had a boyfriend, dude," Oliver is saying, but Connor can't really process the words right now. It's too early in the morning for that. "I wouldn't have flirted like an idiot with you if I'd known. Sorry about that, by the way. I take it that's him?" Connor looks over his shoulder to where Oliver is indicating and sees Wes, standing in all his puppy-dog glory, looking over at them with concerned eyes.

Everything Oliver has said catches up to Connor in a rush, and he freezes. Fuck. _Fuck_. This was not how this was meant to go.

"Wait!" he calls out to Oliver, who's already walking away. "I don't have a boyfriend," he says when he catches up. "I don't do boyfriends." Oliver waits, eyes big and expectant, and suddenly Connor _wants _to do boyfriends, _wants _to take his nerdy downstairs neighbour out on a date, a proper date, dinner and everything, because _damn, _he's different to all of Connor's other hook-ups, but for the life of him Connor can't figure out why.

Maybe it's that smile. Small, tentative.

Hopeful.

"I liked you flirting with me," Connor says finally, meeting Oliver's eyes. "It should be a thing. That happens. Regularly."

"Didn't you just say you don't do boyfriends?" Oliver asks, but his tone is teasing, and Connor smiles.

"Well—I guess I can be persuaded. And you _know_ just how attentive a listener I can be." It's all been worth it, Connor decides, just for that adorable blush lighting up Oliver's cheeks. At that moment, a fireman announces to the crowd that they're free to return to their rooms—which means Connor needs to return to his cramming session for next week's midterm. Damn it.

"I, uh—guess I'll see you around," Oliver says, all the light-hearted cheer gone from his voice. It's obvious he thinks Connor was just joking around, looking for a way to pass the time—but _god_, this is so much more than that, and Connor has no idea how to say so. And then an idea hits him. He grabs Oliver's arm and halts him in his tracks.

"About the jacket—"

"Oh, god, I'm so sorry, here, I totally forgot—"

"Keep it," Connor tells Oliver firmly, grinning. He gets a bemused look in return. "Now you have an excuse to come over later." Oliver's ears tinge red when he gets what Connor is saying, and the latter just can't resist the urge to lean forward and whisper one last thing. "And if you tell me to be quiet again, I promise I'll listen this time." With a final wink over his shoulder, Connor waltzes away to re-join his friends.

"Did you seriously just pick up a guy during a fire drill?" Asher asks, incredulous. Connor glances over his shoulder and sees Oliver staring back at him, wrapped up tight in Connor's jacket and smiling. Connor grins.

"All in a day's work, my friend," he says, and thanks his lucky stars that Asher, bumbling, stupid Asher, forgot to turn the oven off that night.


End file.
